


mask of human leather

by monyaka



Series: Maybe Interactive 2020 December Prompts [14]
Category: The Tyrant’s Bodyguard (Visual Novel)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hearing Voices, Maybe Interactive 2020 December Prompts, Pre-Canon, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:14:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28292922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monyaka/pseuds/monyaka
Summary: sometimes, sean just wants to tear his skin to shreds.WARNING: explicit self-harm.
Series: Maybe Interactive 2020 December Prompts [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2035726
Kudos: 2





	mask of human leather

**Author's Note:**

> i can’t remember the exact quote but the way sun moon and hound starts with like. “this is sean in his teenage angst years” and i was like. this POOR kid is so fucking mentally ill... and the way he kept hearing voices im upset! im upset!!!
> 
> also, please read the tags! this isn’t a happy story and there’s explicit self harm as well as mentions of suicidal thoughts present in the fic.

if ian li is a brilliant, passionate sun, then sean is simply his shallow, melancholy reflection. if ian is electrifying red, then sean is a pale blue. ian is popular at school, has a plethora of friends and a fit body. and sean… well, everyone knows what sean is. he can hear them whispering too-loudly to each other. at school. at home. in the streets. there isn’t a refuge to be found where sean can be something other than himself.

nowhere except for his room. and so the lanky teenager sits there, cross-legged and trying not to cry. ian doesn’t cry, sean thinks. he shouts. and isn’t that better in so many ways? isn’t it more manly? more authoritative? more  _ worthy _ ? ian is the spitting image of a prince, sean thinks. entitled and self-absorbed and popular. but sean has never been a prince. he’s a broken shard of a mirror, a pale reflection. he’s the useless son, the bastard without a shred to his name besides a poisoned birthright. he’s been bullied, pushed to the ground, ridiculed for nothing more than his status. as if his mother were so worthless. as if  _ he _ were so worthless.

but isn’t he?

he knows what he is. he’s nothing more than a perfect mask hiding something evil, something grotesque. his mother had always told him that the sean li the empire wants is nothing but a humble bastard, that he’ll have to work harder to get what he wants, that he’ll always pale in comparison to ian unless he walks without a single misstep. and sean loves his mother. of course he does. he loves her, so he carries out her wishes flawlessly. he dons a perfect mask, one of composure and calm. sean li is good. sean li is polite. sean li is worlds better than his rude and loud-mouthed brother. sean li would never dream of revenge, nor would he ever explode in anger. he’s well-mannered, and he’s dignified. but he knows, he  _ knows _ , that underneath all of that, there’s a monster. a  _ thing _ that seeks only to control others, to lash out in anger and vengeance.  _ vengeance. _ as if he deserves such a thing. 

perhaps that’s what he’s afraid of. he’s afraid that somewhere, deep down, he thinks he deserves better. he’s afraid that his mask will slip from his grasp and shatter, and that he’ll look in the mirror and see someone to be ashamed of. he knows he’s grotesque and shapeless. he knows that festering underneath the mask is something inhuman, a nebulous hatred and distress that he cannot put a name to. and it keeps growing within him, threatening to pierce the falsehoods he’s plastered onto his face. but even still, he wants to become that mask. he wants to be good. he wants to be useful. he wants to be  _ loved _ .

but how can a hollow shell be anything of the sort?

sean cries, and he bangs his fist over and over against the down of his bed. anything else, and he’d risk making a noise. but he can’t make a noise. because they can’t know what he is underneath the mask. the stupid goddamn mask that he’s fused to his face. what is he? capable? level-headed? or a monster? if he could do whatever he wanted…

…wouldn’t everything just be the same?

or maybe, if he could do anything he wanted, he would simply end it all. he would go where mother is, be buried next to her, and perhaps then his soul would be at rest. perhaps all the bullies, the whole family, no, the entire monarchy! perhaps they’d all be at rest, if sean would simply disappear.

and the worst of it is, he hasn’t a shred of evidence to contest it. ian? ian doesn’t want him around any more than the emperor.  _ uncle? _ he thinks for a moment, and clings to his pillow with wide, teary eyes. perhaps even han li doesn’t want him alive. perhaps it would be easier for even his uncle if he passed away.

so it’s settled. sean is the only person who still wants himself alive. he wants to be useful. he wants to make a difference. no… maybe all he wants is to be the kind of son his mother would be proud of. but his mother… his mother had always wanted ian as her son, not sean. 

after all, sean is the bastard prince. the son of a concubine. and just knowing that, he wants to scream and claw himself to shreds. impulsively, wide-eyed, sean rakes his nails down his forearm. the skin goes white, then red. there’s feeling there, a sort of ache that makes him feel less empty.

so he does it again. again. again. at first, he thinks of someone each time. his mother. ian. han li. his father. the bullies at school. but after a while, it’s just himself. he thinks of the inhumanity, the darkness in his chest. and it stops being vengeance, doesn’t it? it becomes punishment. it becomes punishment, and then it becomes life.

he realizes he’s sobbing, but his movements continue even as they draw thin spots of blood on his arm. he likes the stench of iron, likes how it clings to the undersides of his fingernails. he likes the feeling of being alive. he likes the beat of his own heart. his tears drip onto the wounds, mix with the blood leaking onto his sheets. and even that sting feels good.

_ please. i just want to feel it. i want to feel something but this aching emptiness. _

if he could matter to anyone, if he could bleed for someone, he’d like to do that. but there isn’t a soul who wants his blood but himself. is it selfless, to bleed for yourself? is it heroic? is it  _ worthy _ ?

it isn’t. it’s cowardly and horrible, and as he brings his scratched arm close to his chest, he spies a teacup. and suggestion begins to creep into his mind.  _ i want it to hurt more. i want to bleed more. _ surely, a selfish person wouldn’t think thoughts like this. surely someone who valued themselves, who loved themselves, wouldn’t think thoughts like that. so sean is safe, safe to hold his breath and listen for footsteps. there’s nothing. no one ever waits outside his door. and he breaks the cup against the floor, holds his breath once more.

nothing. not even a sound.

so sean brings the shard to his skin, simply drags it. lightly at first, experimental, then harder. harder. as the line of blood blossoms on his fair skin, he thinks, deliriously, that his blood might become infused with the scent of tea. he makes tally marks. what he’s counting, he doesn’t know. but he can see the lines — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. it can’t be the amount of times he’s hurt those around him, the amount of times he’s wanted to fight back, the amount of times he’d failed to be what everyone wanted. for if it was, even the entire length of his body wouldn’t be enough to hold the marks. maybe it isn’t punishment anymore. maybe it’s just the darkness within him screaming to be seen. begging teary-eyed to let the light hit it, to be able to see the sunrise without being engulfed by it completely. and as he thinks of himself, as he thinks of the way his brother looks at him, he decides that an arm just isn’t enough.

sean pushes his pants off, sits cross-legged in his sweater and boxers. and he moves from his arm to his legs, enjoying the scarlet smears with the kind of loopy smile that would look better on a child than a gangly teenager. the skin on his legs is tougher, not as soft or delicate as his forearm. he has to press harder for it to make a mark, but it stings just the same. it’s nice, he thinks, as he makes cut after cut. he wonders if he can make enough tallies that he could die in a pool of his own blood, so that he could be buried next to —

he hears a voice. he feels like someone is watching him. his throat constricts. footsteps, people’s voices. but when he tries to focus on it, it vanishes without a trace. no… there is a trace. it’s  _ guilt _ . 

he drops the bloodied shard on his bed, and his chest suddenly feels too tight. what has he done? he stares at the cuts, wonders if there are pieces of broken porcelain in his skin, so small that he can’t see them. he doesn’t have bandages in his room, doesn’t have anything to stop the bleeding or any idea of how to treat the wounds. and the blood… the blood. what’s he going to do about the blood? it’s sticky, and it’s soaking into his bedsheets. the room smells like iron, and he feels dirty. dirty, and still ashamed. the euphoria, the adrenaline — it all departs. even the voices have stopped, leaving him feel alone. alone, and cold. he shivers, and his breaths feel shaky in his lungs. slowly, he pries himself off his bed. he walks with a ginger limp, not wanting to aggravate the fresh wounds on his leg. he feels them, flaps of dislodged skin — or maybe that’s just his own imagination. he doesn’t feel like a war hero anymore. he doesn’t feel like a martyr anymore. he just feels pathetic. pathetic, and numb.

the next day, his wounds itch under his clothing, and he thinks:  _ i wish i could just tear my skin to shreds. _


End file.
